


Sugar and Spice

by starryskeyess



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Baking, Established Relationship, Fluff, Food, M/M, Reference to Alcohol, Sheith in Autumn 2020, canon divergent? idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryskeyess/pseuds/starryskeyess
Summary: Keith bakes Shiro's favorite cookie.Day 1 of Sheith in Autumn: baking
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 56





	Sugar and Spice

Shiro’s walk home from the store is brisk, as if he can move quickly enough to outrun the autumn chill. It seeps right through his jacket and thick sweater, right into his bones. Shiro loves autumn, loves the changing of the leaves and all things spiced and cozy, but his body was made for summer heat. His fingers tremble with the cold as he grips his paper bag tighter.

He had volunteered to make the quick run to the liquor store, once he and Keith had realized they bought all the ingredients for hot buttered rum… except the rum. After they’d had a self-indulgent laugh over it, Shiro had left Keith to finish baking while he picked up the last missing ingredient. He hasn’t been allowed to touch anything regarding baking since last year, when he had somehow switched salt and sugar in a recipe and rendered Keith’s pumpkin cheesecake inedible.

Shiro isn’t a bad cook, he and Keith have always taken turns in the kitchen when it comes to making dinner every night. Sunday mornings he makes breakfast, frying up omelets or french toast in his pajamas, waiting for Keith to stumble out of bed. His husband’s morning bedhead is chaotic and endearing, and he isn’t usually coherent until his second cup of coffee. Shiro loves those mornings, loves the way Keith plasters himself against Shiro’s back as he finishes the food, arms squeezed tight around his waist.

Keith, on the other hand, had discovered a bit of a talent for baking. Shiro hadn’t realized how much skill Keith actually had, until the time he bit into a gooey chocolate chip cookie Keith had whipped up from scratch. The sight of Keith after he finished baking, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wearing a ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron, had also been stunning. He’d had flour in his hair, and smudged across one of his cheekbones, cheeks flushed with the heat from opening the oven and diving in for his creations a little too eagerly.

Today Keith’s making Shiro’s favorite--snickerdoodles. Shiro has always loved anything rolled in cinnamon and sugar, and Keith has always indulged him. Shiro says so all the time but Keith just brushes him off, or says, matter of factly, “You deserve everything, Shiro.” He loves Shiro with such a casual intensity that it leaves Shiro speechless. Keith looks at him like he hung the stars, looks at him like he truly does deserve everything and he’s ready to hand deliver anything Shiro could want, come hell or high water.

Shiro made the hot buttered rum batter earlier--since it’s all mixing and absolutely no cooking anything, Keith had even trusted him to make it mostly independently. It’s Keith’s family recipe, something his dad used to make, and his dad’s dad made before that. The recipe is simple, vanilla ice cream, powdered sugar, various spices, but there’s something special about it. It’s warming, not just from the buzz and swirl of alcohol through your veins, but somewhere deeper and more important.

The rest of his walk takes maybe three minutes, long strides mapping the way through parking lots and neighborhoods. Shiro takes the stairs two at a time, and the cold eats at the muscles of his thighs. They protest at the stretch, and Shiro can’t help picturing his coziest sweats, the ones he plans on shoving his legs into as soon as possible.

They were a gift from Keith, thick woven cotton lined with fleece, and he only takes them out during the colder seasons. They’re more like leggings than sweats, clinging tightly to the swell of Shiro’s thighs, the curves of his calves. If Shiro had bought them for himself, he probably would have gone a size up, but the way Keith’s gaze burns into him when he wears them is enough for Shiro to enjoy being on display a little bit. Right now Shiro thinks they’re probably in a chest in the bottom of his closet, folded neatly with care. He’s mentally calculating how fast he can get the sweats on when he unlocks the front door, setting his keys in a bowl with a soft clang. He’s so focused on his comfort that he almost doesn’t notice the soft music playing from the kitchen.

A song trills out of the speaker on their kitchen counter, something deep and full of a quiet joy. It’s not a song Shiro recognizes, but he likes it. What he likes much much more, however, is the low timbre of Keith’s voice, singing along. Shiro realizes, with a shock, that he’s never heard Keith sing before. He’s certain he would remember if he had, Keith’s voice is deep and smooth and it sends heat curling through Shiro.

He rounds the corner to their open kitchen slowly, slipping his shoes off to silence his footfalls. Keith’s wearing his “Kiss the Cook” apron again, thick maroon fabric splotched and faded with use. Keith had rolled his eyes when Shiro insisted he wear it the first time, but since then it hangs on a hook in the pantry and gets pulled out for every baking adventure.

Shiro can hear the click of Kosmo’s nails against the hardwood, and guesses that their monstrous beggar of a dog is hovering around Keith, hoping to catch any morsels that fall to the ground. Shiro tucks himself into an alcove where he has a perfect view of Keith over their kitchen island. Kosmo is prancing around Keith, and she looks more like she’s dancing than begging.

Keith leans down to croon directly to Kosmo, singing with an easy confidence into a wooden spoon flecked with cookie dough that he holds like a microphone. Kosmo adds her own voice to the mix, howling right in Keith’s face, loud and warbling. Keith throws his head back and laughs, a booming joyous thing, and Shiro’s captivated with the line of his throat, the way the light lands against his adam’s apple and the shadows flicker in the sharp dips of his collarbone. Keith’s the most beautiful thing Shiro’s ever seen, and he barely resists striding to wrap Keith in his arms and press him into the kitchen counter.

Hands empty now, Keith holds them open, palms up, to Kosmo, who shifts back on her hind legs, slapping her front paws into Keith’s hold. Keith grips Kosmo’s paws gently, swaying them back and forth in some approximation of dancing. They should look absolutely ridiculous, but Shiro can’t tear his eyes away for entirely different reasons. He’s rooted to the spot, incredibly in awe and in love with the man currently slow dancing with a space wolf that stands half a foot taller than Keith on her hind legs. 

Keith is humming wordlessly now, and he drops Kosmo’s paws back to the floor with a soft thump. Kosmo gives a little whuff, butting her head into Keith’s hip enough to make him stumble a little. As he recovers, Keith turns to face the hallway that Shiro’s currently occupying, watching his husband with rapt attention.

“I love you so much,” Shiro says, the words spilling out of his mouth before he realizes he’s thought them. Keith’s cheeks flush sweetly, pink blooming under his skin. Shiro’s legs carry him into the kitchen with bold, confident steps. He’s in no rush, he knows Keith will always be there, knows he’s proven that time and time again, but he sees no reason to wait, either. Depositing the rum onto the island, Shiro reaches Keith and crowds into him, until Keith is up against the counter. Shiro snakes an arm around his husband’s waist, pulling Keith tightly against him as he dips down to kiss him. Keith’s lips pillow against his and Keith sighs into the kiss, reaching up to scratch blunt nails against Shiro’s undercut. He smells like vanilla and cinnamon and _home,_ and when Shiro licks into Keith’s mouth and tastes him, sugar and spice bloom on his tongue. 

Keith is smiling against his lips as they pull apart, and his eyes are a little dazed. No matter how many times Shiro gets to kiss Keith, no matter how many days he’s woken up with his limbs tangled in Keith’s black hair tickling the skin of his face, Shiro doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to it. Every touch lights his skin on fire, even the chastest kisses have his heart racing

“Snickerdoodles are done,” Keith murmurs against Shiro’s lips, into the kiss. Keith only makes the cookies because Shiro loves them, and he seems content to keep tasting his husband instead of testing his creations. Keith’s always preferred salty snacks to sweets, but he constantly finds new ways to please Shiro’s sweet tooth. 

“See, this is why I married you,” Shiro replies, and Keith’s low chuckle is indulgent.

“Yeah, I’m sure it is,” Keith says. Reaching back without bothering to look, he pulls a snickerdoodle from the cooling rack, waving it under Shiro’s nose with a smirk. Shiro doesn’t take his gaze from Keith’s as he leans down slowly, taking the cookie between his teeth. His lips graze Keith’s fingers, and he lets them slide across Keith’s skin deliberately. He bites down into the soft cookie, teeth sinking into it easily, and a moans low at the perfection of it. There’s the lightest crust of sugar and cinnamon at the edges, but the inside melts against his tongue, buttery and sweet. 

Shiro’s eyes had fluttered closed at his first taste, but when he opens them, Keith’s gaze is fixed on his mouth, violet eyes heated and intense. Shiro loves that look, loves the way it makes him feel raw and exposed and so utterly _wanted._ Shiro takes the cookie from Keith’s hand with his own, discarding it on the counter without a second glance. At the same time, he pulls at the strings of Keith’s apron, pulling it open and sliding his fingers under fabric until they meet skin.

Shiro drops his mouth to Keith’s neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along his skin. Even Keith’s hair smells like a bakery, falling in loose waves over his shoulders and tickling Shiro’s cheek. Shiro sucks a small mark onto Keith’s pulse point, savoring the gasp it elicits. Pressed as close as they are, Shiro can feel the gasp as a press against his own chest, can feel the way his husband shudders apart under his touch. 

“They taste amazing,” Shiro whispers into Keith’s ear, “but you taste even better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnnd they drank hot buttered rum and ate cookies and cuddled and lived happily ever after. I don't make the rules, that's just how it is.
> 
> Chat with me on twitter! @/starryskeyes


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